Whiterope

It looks like a nice town. Hell, it looks like a sanetown. It’s dropped in the middle of the Hedge, but its streets are well-organized, cobbled with clean white brick. The little houses and merchant-fronts are maybe a bit overgrown with the invasive flora of the Thorns, but even that gives it kind of a quaint, organic look. In the morning and evening, hobgoblins come out and sweep the streets with hay brooms. They can be seen on rooftops, hammering down moss-slick shingles, or laying out a sweet-smelling trifle pie on an oaken sill.

Changelings might come here and see a place of potential solace, somewhere that will welcome them and offer a bastion of breathin the otherwise lunatic labyrinth of the Hedge. And that is all a terrible lie. The citizens of Whiterope hate changelings with a murderous zeal. They are woefully prejudiced against the Lost for reasons that are as-yet-unknown; when they encounter a motley, the town mobilizes. They take captives. They lock them away, or torture them, or hang them from the gallows that sit in the middle of town.

The hobs can smell changelings with a Wits + Composure roll + a changeling’s Wyrd (or the highest Wyrd within the motley). Those who do brave its angry streets may find that access to goblin fruits, oddments and trifles is very easy, for the hobs here leave such things lying about.